Problems, And How To Solve Them
by girl-of-many-faces
Summary: In which John becomes frustrated at a certain puzzle game, and Sherlock's curiosity really gets the better of him.


**AN /: Just something fun to get us by, written due to a plot bunny that I had a while ago and then lost to the dark depths of my usb until I found it last week.**

**Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' and all characters within belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I'm just taking them for a joyride, I make no profit from this.

O.o.O.o.O

_**Problems**_

John grumbled as he walked up the stairs and towards the door of his shared flat, not really concentrating on where he was going and stubbing his toe for about the fifth time on the staircase. In his hands he held a silver DS which he had borrowed from Sarah with the strict promise that he wouldn't allow Sherlock to blow it up, and preferably never let Sherlock anywhere within a fifty yard radius of it. Sarah had been using it before he had arrived for their date at a warmly lit café, and only noticed that John had arrived when he had tapped her on the shoulder five minutes after sitting across from her at the small table.

The rest of their date had been spent trying to solve one particularly difficult puzzle about the ages of a brother and sister, and after one hour of collective thought, lots of mathematical equations, and a lot of customers annoyed at the constant proclamations of their failure from one very loud Professor Layton, they had finally solved the damn thing and ordered some food. And now, finally, here John was, his hand blindly outstretched as he felt for the doorframe, his mind whirling as he read the newest puzzle over and over again and tried to make sense of it.

Sherlock looked up at the other man from his spot on the couch as John stumbled through the doorway and into the kitchen, frowning as John neared the beakers that he had carefully placed out on the kitchen table. He gave himself a second to debate whether he should stay sprawled out with his violin, but then gave into his curiosity when he heard John let out a frustrated sigh that didn't seem to be caused by the mess.

By the time John had found himself a chair that wasn't covered in chemicals he had already attempted the puzzle several times, and was still nowhere nearer to the answer. He knew that the key to answering it was to think laterally, that seemed to be the way every puzzle in the damn game worked, but the more frustrated he became the harder it was to think straight. He scrawled one last answer onto the touch-screen with the stylus, waited hopefully, and then slammed the DS down onto the table when his answer was declared wrong.

"Having a small problem, are we?" said a deep baritone voice in his ear, and John reeled backwards. Sherlock took no notice of him and bent forwards over to examine the puzzle for himself. In no less than five seconds a small smile pulled at his lips and he took the stylus from where it had landed on the table after John had slapped it down in frustration, and scrawled in the answer. Not surprisingly Sherlock's answer was proclaimed correct, and his smile grew smug.

"Really John, I'm disappointed, that puzzle wasn't difficult." Sherlock said.

John mumbled under his breath, snatching the stylus away from Sherlock before returning to the game.

O.o.O.o.O

Three hours later saw Sherlock typing quickly on his phone and searching the internet for information relevant to his latest case, a murder conducted in a hotel lobby during a power out that had lasted for only two minutes. He was still sitting on the couch, looking up the ways to hang a person without making much noise, and John still sitting at the kitchen table. He had cleared a small space for himself among the hazardous clutter and had at one stage managed to remove himself for the game long enough to make some tea, which now sat cold and forgotten beside him. He had been on a winning streak and was now halfway into the storyline, but had been stumped on the same puzzle for the last half hour. He would have given up sooner, he had work in the morning and needed some sleep, but this puzzle was one that he needed to solve to progress to the next part of the story, and so far he had nothing.

It was the fact that his eyelids kept slipping shut that finally convinced him to give up, and he ripped his eyes away from the screen to check the time on his watch.

12:30

_Damn._

If he wanted to stay awake for any length of time tomorrow he needed to go to sleep _now_.

Stifling a yawn, John saved the game, turned the power off, and suddenly realised just how tired he was as he stumbled up to his bedroom.

O.o.O.o.O

A little while later, when John was fast asleep, Sherlock looked up from his phone. He had found no information that would be useful to his current case, not even anything remotely relevant to hanging someone from a chandelier in under thirty seconds. He had been thinking up a clever theory, but one where he needed to examine the victims clothes. However, in order to do that, he needed to get to the evidence taken away from the crime scene, and in order to do that he needed Lestrade.

The unfortunate part was that Lestrade would have already left the station, and if so then Sherlock had three options. The first, call the station and risk Anderson picking up the phone, which was unlikely. The second, call the station and argue with someone he didn't know. The third, contact Lestrade now, and wait until the morning anyway, because Lestrade was always less reasonable late at night, and would probably hide the evidence somewhere out of spite. This meant that he had to wait until the morning to coax the Lestrade into letting him see the evidence, which would leave him with a big gap of time in between now and whenever he could get over to the station earliest.

And so, he had a problem. He was bored.

Sherlock's eyes darted towards the kitchen. John hadn't put that puzzle game away and it was still sitting on the kitchen table, surrounded by chemicals that could melt it away to nothing in mere seconds.

_No._

No, he wasn't going to stoop to that level, to play a common game that would probably just be an insult to his intelligence...

He was bored, though...

Listening to make sure that he could hear John' snores from the other room, Sherlock peeled his long limbs from the couch and crossed over into the kitchen in nine strides, plucked the DS off the table, and walked back to the couch, allowing himself to sink back down. He contemplated finishing the puzzle that John had been stuck on, but decided to make a new file and go from there.

The first puzzle _was_ an insult to his intelligence, it was far too easy. But at least the storyline seemed better then that crap telly that John and Mrs. Hudson watched. Sherlock glanced at the time on his phone.

12:58

_Well,_ Sherlock mused to himself, _if nothing else, at least this will be a mildly entertaining distraction._

O.o.O.o.O

John woke slowly in the morning, the cold of the room outside seeping in under his blanket. With a groan of discontentment he rolled out of his bed, forcing himself into the cold air, and trudged off to go have a shower.

When he finally stepped into the kitchen fifteen minutes later John saw Sherlock examining a blue liquid contained in a glass beaker, holding it up to the light and swirling it around so that smaller white particles where swirled around inside it like a whirlpool. He didn't notice John walk in, didn't show any sign of acknowledgement. And then, as John crossed over to the kettle to make himself some tea, he realised something.

"Sherlock,' he said slowly,' there was a DS, sitting on the table last night."

Sherlock's mouth pulled itself into another one of his smug smiles.

"You think I've done something to it,' he said,' don't worry, it's safe, it's sitting next to my skull."

John abandoned his tea and dashed over to the mantelpiece, snatching the DS from where it sat upside down, balanced precariously on top of a pile of small, yellowed papers. He turned it over, checking for scratches and even burn marks, but it was miraculously unharmed. Cautiously, John turned it on, sighing in relief when it didn't blow up in his face, but blinked in confusion when he reached the files selection screen. All three files were used, one for Sarah and one for himself. And one for Sherlock.

One self-righteous little save file for Sherlock which stated that the game was beaten, and all the puzzles were solved. Professor Layton's little golden head shone out at him like a smug beacon.

"You finished the game?" John said. He looked over at Sherlock just in time to see his smile grow into a rather large grin. "How could you finished the whole game, I only borrowed it yesterday afternoon!"

"The game was simple,' Sherlock replied, still not looking up,' it took me less than three hours to complete. Tragic, really, although the idea of the whole village being inhabited by robots was quite intriguing."

John sighed in exasperation, slipping the DS into the pocket of his jacket so that Sherlock wouldn't be able to sneak off with it and decided to buy breakfast instead of risking a look through the cupboard. Last week he had found fingers in there, fingers that were decidedly not fresh and beginning to rot, and it was with great will power that he had managed to close the door and not gag. It wasn't the strangest body part he had found lying around the flat, not by far, but he wasn't willing to risk finding anything that might cause him to go hungry until lunch.

**The End**


End file.
